He's the A in C-A-R-E

Photo by Dustin HusarikYou know already that our son, Andrew, moved to Columbia during the summer.

In mid-August he started his new job with a major financial institution. The first order of business was to study like his life depended on it (because it sort of did) for the Series Seven exam.

It's a hard test. You probably don't even want to know how hard. Andrew said it's the hardest thing he has ever done -- and this is a young man who stretches out on his stomach in the boom pod of a KC-135 Stratotanker and refuels fighter jets while in flight.

He passed the Series Seven exam on the first try. Then he had exactly nineteen days to study for the Series Sixty-Six -- a test many say is even more difficult than the Series Seven. The rest of Andrew's "class" of fledgling financial advisors had several more days to study, but Andrew had to report for military duty.

He passed the Series Sixty-Six on the first try. Next (and last) was a test related to the insurance industry. He passed that too. Then he was off to St. Louis for one of two separate weeks of training. 

He came home and closed on his new house; he'd been renting it from the owner leading up to the closing. Then it was back to St. Louis as a homeowner, for a second and final week of training.

This past Monday, Andrew went "live" as a fully licensed Financial Advisor and officially joined the experienced business partner who recruited and mentored him, in beginning to service accounts.

All this and he still serves in the Tennessee Air National Guard, requiring him to report for duty in Knoxville at least one weekend per month.

We're proud of him and so glad he's here.

Last week while he was in St. Louis, Erica and I decided to decorate Andrew's house for Christmas. He had nothing so I went to Hobby Lobby and Walmart. I bought a small tree, some lights, a red velvet bow, two stockings, and a door wreath with reindeer hanger.

It was dark and cold when we got to Andrew's last Friday night. He'd be home the next evening. Erica carried stuff inside while I made spaghetti; I'd been shopping all day and she'd been tutoring for hours. We were hungry.

When we left, everything was sparkling with multicolored lights and the stockings (hung on Rambo's crate) were stuffed with treats. We left the front porch light on so that Andrew would notice his wreath (he enters the house through the garage).

Our hero returned home after dark on Saturday after having driven the day before from St. Louis to Knoxville so that he could pick up Rambo, who had stayed with a family that adores him. He came straight to our house because TG had called and asked for his help with a small project.

I fed him a fried-egg sandwich (his favorite) and when he'd gotten his dad squared away, the boy went home to unpack and rest his bones before church on Sunday. He'd have to hit the floor running on Monday.

He texted Erica and me when he saw his Christmasy house and perceived that certain elfin activity had taken place. He loved it and was appropriately grateful. I think it touched his heart.

Touching his heart was something I wanted to do, especially since a liberal snowflake had carved a swastika into the driver's side door of Andrew's F150 while he was at dinner in St. Louis on the previous Thursday evening.

They'd also tried to deface the political sticker prominently placed in the back window.

So let me unpack this for you.

A young man of twenty-seven who has already served a decade in the United States Air Force -- and graduated from college while serving -- and who has never been arrested, never been on welfare, doesn't drink, doesn't carouse, sings in the church choir, works hard and likes to go fishing and hiking on his days off, who is respectful and considerate of his parents and his sisters, who loves his dog as though Rambo were a child -- this young man was targeted and bullied, labeled at the very least a white supremacist racist bigot and at worst an actual Nazi -- by someone who doesn't like the way a presidential election turned out.

I'm not contending that my son is perfect; he's not. Far from it. He's a flawed person just like you and just like me. But for all his faults he is a God-fearing patriotic American who serves his country and who contributes to society rather than taking from it. He's a gentleman and -- as it turns out -- a bit of a scholar. He has goals and a strong healthy work ethic and a mortgage.

You know: a hard-working, law-abiding taxpayer. The kind of person that, according to liberals, you need to fear.

In early October, TG and I posted two beautiful Trump signs in our yard. They weren't free; we had to pay for them. We were glad to do it. Only, about a week after we put them out, the signs were stolen.

We replaced them. The second two made it through to election night.

So the takeaway is, according to liberal Social Justice Warriors who have their knickers in a twist because Hillary Clinton lost the election -- lost it fair and square -- it's okay to preach tolerance and love and kumbayah to the rest of us while stealing people's personal property and calling them vile names and vandalizing their automobiles to the tune of many hundreds of dollars. Or at least, advocating such behavior by not speaking out against it.

That's acceptable, to a liberal. Because Trump.

And then there are the ones who claim they don't feel "safe" now. You know what? We were in more danger for the last eight years than we could ever be in the next eight. Far more. Only history will tell the depth and breadth of the peril our country was placed in due to the liberal ideologies of Barack Obama and his ilk having free rein.

And so I say again -- again, because I've said it before -- I thank God every day of my life that I am a conservative. I would rather die than be a liberal.

Yes. That's what I said. If someone who had the power to do so, told me I was going to die tomorrow, but offered me another twenty-five years of life and promised that throughout that time I'd be free of illness, have no financial reversals, suffer no tragic events -- but for the duration of that quarter-century I'd have to be a liberal, I would choose to die tomorrow.

Why? Because liberalism tends to death. Liberalism mocks God. Conservatism, based as it is on Biblical principles, tends to life. Before you get mad, remember: I don't make the rules.

If you don't agree with me -- if you were scared on election night, or have experienced anxiety in the days since, because Donald Trump won -- please know that the last thing in the world I would ever do is hurt you, or key your car, or call you ugly names, or steal something out of your yard.

You have nothing to fear from conservatives, or from capitalism. What you need to fear is liberals. Not least because every time they speak and with everything they do, they are lying to you.

The vote of someone who disagreed with you was not a hate crime.

That's rubbish. Complete and utterly false hate-filled asinine imbecilic liberal claptrap. Nonsense. Rubbish.

I am thankful that my son's life wasn't directly threatened by the leftist bully who vandalized his truck. It could have been worse; we all know that's true.

And I am grateful that, instead of Barack Obama II in the form of Hillary Clinton, we have been granted a reprieve in the form of another imperfect -- some may say woefully so, but I wouldn't be one of them -- but sincere man who I believe truly will give his heart and best efforts in a bid to Make America Great Again.

I wish him every success. I look forward to his leadership.

And that is all for now.

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Merry Christmas :: God Bless America

Ring in the old

In the spring of this year, TG's mother died. His father has been gone since 2011.

As the summer progressed, TG and his brother and sister were busy tying up the loose ends of their mother's estate.

The last time TG went to Ohio to meet with his sibs, in August, there was a discussion about their mother's wedding rings.

The engagement ring with its impossibly tiny diamond was in two pieces: a battered, blackened, broken, dull gold band and a once-sparkling crumb-sized stone. By today's standards it is hardly credible; to two young people reared on Ohio farms marrying in 1948, it was a big deal.

It was obvious that Grandma Weber hadn't worn the ring in years; nobody could remember how long. She had a three-birthstone mother's ring that she paired with her original wedding band after her engagement ring gave up the ghost.

So it was that TG offered to take care of having the ring repaired and returned to his sister, to keep. He brought it home and promptly handed it off to me.

Naturally.

I put it aside and -- just being honest here -- forgot about it for a while.

But several weeks ago I remembered that I'd been tasked with taking the heirloom ring to a jeweler and arranging for it to be restored.

There's a jeweler I use when the occasion arises, and as it happened I had a few other pieces that needed work. I gathered everything and went to see them.

The young lady who discussed the matter of my late mother-in-law's ring repair was noncommittal. She said she'd talk to the actual jeweler and call me with an estimate for the work.

Which she did, a few days later.

Her words to me were: The jeweler says he will try to fix the ring. The charge will be eighty-three dollars and it will likely take several weeks.

Now, I don't know if you're like me. How would I know that? But I will tell you how I am: I got stuck on the word try.

So I said: If he tries and fails, will I be charged eighty-three dollars? Because if so, that could possibly be a deal breaker.

I felt it was a valid question. Saying you'll try is implying you could fail. Am I right? And I wasn't about to pay someone to try and fail when I could pay someone the same or a similar amount to succeed.

I mean, it's a ring that requires repair. You're a jeweler. What's to try? Just do your job. Your one job.

My question, however, was met with silence. Such a long silence that I decided not to help the young lady. I waited.

Finally she stammered: Well ... it's not a question of failing ...

And so I said: Let's go back to the beginning. You said the jeweler would try to fix the ring and that the charge would be eighty-three dollars. All I need to know is, if he tries and fails, and I'm handed back a still-broken ring, will I be charged eighty-three dollars? I'm not being difficult; it's a simple question and one that I think any reasonable person would ask.

There was a beat more of silence, so I continued: No hard feelings. Seriously. If y'all can't fix it, there are lots of jewelers in Columbia and I'll find one who will repair the ring.

Then she said: I'll ask him and call you back.

I said: Okay.

Presently the go-between called back. She said: He said he'd rather not deal with it.

I admit, that stung. Really? I thought. This is a jeweler to whom I've entrusted things like the re-design of my own wedding set for my thirtieth wedding anniversary in 2009, and the repair of a ring I've had since I was a girl. I buy gifts there.

It's local and family-owned. It's not Jared but it's also not a hole in the wall. It's a reputable jeweler with a sizeable inventory.

They're my go-to jeweler and they didn't want anything to do with repairing a sixty-eight-year-old ring with little monetary value but with significant sentimental import.

But I thanked her and told her I'd be by to retrieve my late relative's bruised and battered antique engagement ring with its diamond so minuscule, it was difficult to see.

A few days later, I took the clear two-inch-square plastic zip-top bag containing the pieces of the old ring, to a jeweler a few miles from my house. David's. A storefront in a pristine shopping strip anchored by Talbots.

I'd found David's via internet search and was impressed with rave reviews granted by multiple customers.

David himself took the wee plastic bag from me and peered at its contents. He neither hemmed nor hawed nor hesitated.

We'll restore it to its original beauty, he promised. It will be ready a week from tomorrow.

No excuses. No mention of try. Just a commitment to do.

And it was.

I went back in eight days. Meantime I'd received a courteous call telling me the ring was ready.

When David handed it to me, nestled in a beautiful inky-black box, I gasped.

The repaired, restored, renewed ring, all of a piece once more, was infinitely greater than the sum of its parts. The gold glowed; the diamond, which seemed much bigger now, twinkled beguilingly. It seemed full of the innocent promise of first love and the fathomless mystery of love that lasts a lifetime.

My eyes misted and I wished my mother-in-law could have seen her ring this way. She was not the sort of person who would have done this for herself. It occurs to me that we should have done it for her, long ago, at the very least when she lost her husband.

But we didn't, and it's too late, but at least now, it was done. Done by a confident, competent person who took responsibility for doing the one job he'd taken upon himself to do.

And it was more than the repair of a ring; it was a mission accomplished and pride in one's vocation. It was a nod to the past and respect for posterity and treasuring what's important, and understanding not only cost, but value.

As to cost: David charged me ninety dollars. A fair price, and every penny justified for what we got in return.

Find your gift. Offer your services, whether for money or other currency, such as the light in a person's eyes. But whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might. Excuses are lies. Be honest and be industrious.

You'll make people happy in ways that are difficult to measure but delightful to imagine.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday

Sign Me Up :: Gimme a T

By my reckoning, it's somewhere between a tortilla and a gorilla.

With chicken because ... Chick-fil-A.

Spotted by the Pirate in Snellville, Georgia.

Keep a sharp eye.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday

I said okay but he went away

So let's see. What was the last semi-interesting thing that happened to me.

Oh yes. Along with recent Dagny photos featuring the kitchen Christmas tree, here's a tale which, appropriately, involves food.

I was at the grocery store, on my tippy toes in the aisle that contains juice products, reaching high and far back for a bottle of lemon juice. This was a few weeks before Thanksgiving.

As my fingertips began prodding at the only bottle I could remotely reach without a ladder and began urging it towards the shelf edge being careful to avoid knocking the bottle (or bottles) off onto my head, I heard a voice behind me.

Uh, ma'am? Male voice.

Oh good, I thought. A tall man has materialized behind me, has intuited that I am having difficulty, and is about to offer to reach the lemon juice for me.

But no.

It was a man. I got that part right.

A tall man who I would describe as being in his mid sixties. Dressed in dark slacks and a collared shirt that appeared soiled in the front.

Like me, he had commandeered a grocery cart. In the front part (where you'd park a baby or small child), he had placed four Marie Callender frozen dinners.

They looked for all the world like props. 

After securing my attention, the man proceeded to stumble through a speech about having recently undergone surgery and being in possession of an EBT card with a zero balance.

I waited until I could get a word in and then I said: Sir, if you need food I'll be glad to buy you those things. I gestured toward the frozen dinners.

Kindly don't peg me as a bleeding heart or a good Samaritan. It's not that warm and fuzzy. I just didn't know what else to do.

See, while I'm neither of the things mentioned above, I am a skeptic. And I was skeptical indeed as to whether I was being asked to feed a hungry person, or whether what the stranger really wanted was cash.

I don't carry cash, so there's that.

And on the off chance he really was hungry, I was willing to spend a few dollars to alleviate that. 

But I had a shopping list of stuff to buy to feed my own family, and I was maybe halfway through. 

I told the stranger I wasn't done and that he'd have to either wait for me up front, or follow me around until I was finished.

He said he'd follow me around.

And he did, until about ninety seconds later when the fact that he was following me (closely), got on my nerves.

I turned around and asked if, instead of frozen dinners, he wouldn't like some real food -- like, fruits and vegetables?

He said he was a bachelor and didn't know how to cook anything.

I asked whether there were places he could go to obtain free meals or food -- such as a food bank or a mission or a church -- to spare him the embarrassment of panhandling in the grocery store.

He said a pastor had helped him a little but he wasn't aware of anyplace else that he could go.

So I asked if he'd mind giving me some space in which to finish my shopping, and then I'd meet him up front.

My new acquaintance went away. As I pushed my buggy up and down aisles, I saw him from a distance a time or two, keeping an eye on me.

When I eventually made my way to the checkout lines, I began looking for him.

He'd vanished. Throughout the process of unloading my stuff onto the conveyor belt, I continued to look around.

Then I saw him. The man who had asked me to buy four frozen dinners was striding purposefully out of the store. His hands were empty.

Years ago I wrote about a man who accosted TG at a filling station, begging for food. My TG will always buy food for someone who asks; that's one of the reasons I agreed to buy the Marie Callenders for my stranger.

But see, they don't want food. They want money. And not money for food. Sorry but that's life on the mean streets.

Way back when, I was accused by a reader of being insensitive to the needs of the unfortunate. She reminded me that for all I knew, the beggars are former stockbrokers whose families have died in car crashes, or who have fallen on hard times in any number of garish ways.

(For her it was always stockbrokers and dead families. I think she'd seen too many movies.)

I hope you haven't formed the impression that I turn a blind eye and heart to the plight of those who are truly needy.

If you need food, I will feed you. I've been known to feed people who didn't technically even require food; they just looked as though they could use something good.

I dispense free advice too, although I make every attempt not to meddle. I'll thank you not to snicker.

The point is, if I can help, I'm here.

At Christmastime and all the time. You can even ask me at the grocery store.

Believe me. 

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy December